Three Candles Until Morning
by Sefiriot
Summary: Vigils are a lonesome business. No one should have to grieve desolate in the dark. Remix fic. Spoilers for all episodes particularly S2E3 The Reichenbach Fall.


**Title: **Three Candles Until Morning (The London Night Watch Remix)**  
Author: **Sefiriot (luminare_ardua)**  
Summary: **Vigils are a lonesome business. No one should have to grieve desolate in the dark.**  
Fandom: **Sherlock (BBC)**  
Pairing:** John Watson/Sherlock Holmes  
**Warnings: **Mentions of suicide, light hints at slash.  
**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. All rights to the named characters herein belong to the BBC, the Estate of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
**Original Story:** Remix of mandatorily's "Better To Light A Candle Than Curse The Darkness", available here at archiveofourown. org /works /386681  
**Notes:** Thank you to Jenny for the beta and taming the jungle of my sentences. Love to Mandy for the inspiration, the handholding and for existing. You make my life brighter.

* * *

It's been a rum few days here in the old Place. The news has well and truly spread by now: one of the _Maker-creator-beings _who lives here, the madcap _Bright-quick-thinking-far-seeing-one_—doesn't, not anymore; and the other, the _One-who-is-Mender-of-Makers_ may soon leave too. The House is quite disconsolate over the whole affair; old as she is, I've never known her to make quite so many moans and groans in the wind. The neighbours hear the lady's sorrow and offer their own condolences; the ones she Houses- Housed were unique. Losing them is a bitter blow.

We had known it was coming; all those nights when the _Bright-one_ paced up and down muttering to himself, scraping on the violin and laying out his plans against the other, the _Bright-one_'s Shadow, all while the steady _Mender-of-Makers_ slept on. Knowledge is scant solace however.

We knew it was coming then, oh yes we did. The violin sings—sang us his thoughts, the floor and carpet sent messages running through ceilings, to the chairs, table, sofa, beds, so that every nook and cranny, every child of the Place known as 221B in Baker Street, London knows what he does—what he did.

The _Makers_ made us, but do not know us. For beings wise enough to create us in the first place, the _Makers_ are surprisingly deaf and blind. London is built of more sights than the _Makers_ see, more sounds than they can hear. What one of her children knows, the rest will know, sooner or later.

We of 221B Baker Street know the foreigners who were here, watching our two cherished _Makers_. We know too, why they were here, and what havoc they sought to bring. There wasn't a one of us that didn't wish to drop very hard on their heads, hard enough to knock them unconscious, or kill (though killing is usually abhorrent for us, whose only purpose is to serve the _Makers_ faithfully). There wasn't a one of us that didn't will those two _Makers_ to hear us screaming our warnings. But we had no chance, they couldn't hear us, the _Makers_ have never been able to.

The streets of the City are alive and grieving—walls rejoice as youngling _Makers_ wield paints and draw likenesses of him, scrawling "We believe in Sherlock Holmes"—that was the name the _Bright-one_ was given amongst his own.

_We believe_, indeed. His own people, save those closest to him, mock him for being a knife turned and broken in the hand; unfit for use, purpose betrayed. We know better however. Didn't we first hear it right here, we of 221B Baker Street? We know he did not reach the end of his purpose; that he continues to serve his function. We do not have to believe. We know.

We do not know, though, when he will return, or if he ever will. We know however his resolve to do so. When he does, we- and all of London will help him.

Our knowing does not aid the _Mender_ though. He only knows the _Bright-one_ has left him forever. We would like to tell him differently—but he can't hear us. One of the most unusual _Makers_ London has seen in this time, like the _Bright-one_, but still he cannot hear us.

There's rustling sounds from outside our drawer, a soft thud and thump. The mantel's reported, as has the chair, what the _Mender_ is doing. The dressing gown the _Bright-one_ favours—favoured—is draped across his favourite chair. The _Bright-one_'s things do not enjoy being moved from their regular places where they lie, patiently, awaiting his return. It's obvious, their sorrow, their waiting, in the way the violin complains in the sound of a string carelessly struck and the skull's wordless murmurs. The nicotine patches are heedless, as usual, in their constant susurrating chatter. It always happens whenever more than one of them are together—in fact they sound much like the _Bright-one_ in his manic moods.

The drawer opens, the box we are contained in is removed from it, and we wait to see who shall be called to service. For us, the time of our service is the first, and last, we ever see of the wider world. It is our duty, one we are proud to serve—a gift of vision, for the gift of light we make with Fire. One of my brethren is chosen, drawn from the box we lie in. Minutes later we hear the sound of a match being struck, and then the shivery sound of flame. The Great Elements have no speech of their own, they have no need of it.

We cannot see what the _Mender_ is doing, but the chair, the ceiling and the mantel keep up a steady commentary on what he is about. He has recreated in this House one of the _Makers_'s special Places, where they go to seek their purpose. All in the room whisper that he is kneeling in front of the _Bright-one_'s chair, staring at the flame fed by the sacrifice of my brother.

It is hard for us who are not of the Makers to understand the things they do and why; but it seems he is perhaps contemplating the _Bright-one_? Maybe he remembers how he last saw the _Bright-one_; it can have no other explanation.

What London knows, her children all know, and we all saw the beginnings, as we have all heard the ending to this tale. First from the Place of Restoration Works, where many other _Menders-of-Makers_ work, and then from our own _Mender_'s recounting within these walls of the events just past. Of how the _Bright-one_ created his deception, unknown to the _Mender_- and forced the _Mender_ to witness it happen. It is hard to accept that as necessary, when it seems to be absolutely, perfectly what the _Makers_ name **cruel**.

The _Mender_'s grief, so the table says, is written on his face, as plain as the bold tracks the pens leave on paper.

And yet- we have learned how the _Makers_ express their emotion named **grief**. Emotions are beyond our understanding, but we- everything that has ever known service to the _Makers_- have seen how these emotions are ultimately displayed. So why does this _Maker_ not produce the fluids others would to show his grief?

The chair murmurs of how his face contorts. _He does not seem to be aware and sees nothing_, says the dressing gown. We in the room- and by extension all of 221B, and through her, Baker Street, and thence London hear and note the harsh, rasping breaths that are not quite what the _Makers_ name **sobs**.

It goes on and on, as a second and yet a third of my brothers is called to service and an end haloed in fire and glory. Still the _Mender_ kneels. It must be painful for him, with his old wounds which the revolver has told us of (_lightbulletspainbombsblood_)—does he do this to atone for some perceived fault towards the _Bright-one, _his friend? Surely he must understand that there is nothing to atone for?

The clock ticks away, a steady reminder that time does not wait; all life goes on; all things meet their ends. Finally, a sigh of cloth, movement at last. The chair reports that the _Mender_ is leaning against his seat now, with the _Bright-one_'s dressing gown clutched to the _Mender_'s face. The chair tells us that he is extending all the support he can give the _Mender_ in this moment of need, which pleases us. We of 221B are fond of the _Mender; _he sets us in order, keeps us from being damaged and sometimes even mends us, as he mends the _Makers_.

The sobs come now, and with them the fluids from the eyes named **tears**. Perhaps the _Mender_ thinks them soundless, but we, the inanimate, unnoticed, unconsidered but never soulless objects—we can hear the wild grief his soul screams with, for any that can to hear; and it is terrible.

An errant breeze blows through the opened door of the room, and the light of my brother's gifting flickers, once, twice—and goes out.

All else is quiet, hushed, as finally, finally the weeping grows. The silence stretches, and breaks; transmuted into the sound of tears, harsh and painful, falling to the floor in the utter darkness that shrouds the house.


End file.
